


I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you

by alby_mangroves



Series: It's my party and I'll fic if I want to [27]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Art, Body Worship, But you gotta roll with the punches, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, Loss of Virginity, M/M, No plan survives contact with the enemy, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Sharing a Bed, and get a new damn plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 08:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15020555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves
Summary: Steve had already stopped believing in the hopeful mantra that hejust hadn't met the right person yet, that things would turn around for him, that someone would see past his shortcomings.Fact was, he'd known that someone most of his life but no amount of looking past shortcomings was gonna deliver that person into his arms.It's 1937, and Steve takes matters into his own hands.





	I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lasenby_Heathcote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasenby_Heathcote/gifts).



> My deepest thanks to Leveragehunters for their intrepid beta, to Nonymos for their unwavering encouragement, and to NotLucy for the reassuring Brooklyn-pick.
> 
> For LasenbyPhoenix, who wanted Bucky and Steve warm, safe and domestic in their Brooklyn apartment (and waited patiently while I bashed this out like a chimpanzee with a cigarette except encased in a glacier, trapped in a slo-mo montage with no cigarettes), and whose lovely, soft and heartwarming art (embedded below) was a wonderful inspiration.

 

 

~ ✪ ~

 

_May 27th, 1937, Brooklyn_

There were a few weeks every year when the whole borough smelled like the East River, summer heat bloated with sickly-sweet decay.

Your nose somehow got used to it through the day but then you’d be hit with it like a brick to the face when you walked out the door. Steve’s face had taken a few brick-solid punches but the smell still made his eyes water.

“See you tomorrow, Mr McCarthy,” he said, smoothing a hand over his hair, stepping over the stoop.

“Hold up, son,” Mr McCarthy said, and Steve turned just in time to catch a box being pressed into his hands.

“I expect you’ll make some use of these, they’re on the turn so can’t sell ‘em anyhow,” Mr McCarthy said, already going back into the shop, shooing Steve away with a gnarled hand. Steve looked down at the produce with a small smile. He’d moved some of these very apples away from the front display and into the back, so he knew they weren’t the freshest, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the teeth. Bucky wasn’t fussy and his appetite had always been twice the size of Steve’s, and anyway, free food always tasted just fine. They’d just bubble and squeak whatever was too far gone.

Steve took the same route home every night from the grocer’s, the smell of wilted cabbage and rot clinging to him despite the canvas apron he wore at work. It was just a short ride on the streetcar up Flatbush Avenue and then a few blocks on foot, all to the tune of children being called in for supper, faraway sounds of industry clinking along on the breeze.

He passed the door on Union Street every night, too.

It was a plain door, nothing at all interesting about it, nothing to set it apart from all the other doors set in chipped clinker walls. Nothing to set the walls apart from all the other sun-fried walls, lurking under the same creaky fire escapes Steve had known his whole life.

It was indistinguishable from every other door, and Steve had no idea how people knew what was behind it, but they did. Steve had been eyeballing the door for weeks, his eyes helplessly drawn to it every time he passed by, ever since Matty Kowalski had whisper-shouted its secret—in the way of happy drunks trying to be discreet—to his brother Marian as they’d staggered home up the tenement stairwell and past Bucky and Steve’s apartment.

He’s seen people go in, and he’d seen people come out, and it was obvious if you were looking for it—that certain _something_. A lift in their step.

He'd lain awake for hours after overhearing the Kowalskis, wondering if Bucky had heard what Matty had said, too. If he had, he'd given no sign of it; close as their beds were to each other in the little bedroom, Steve knew just about every way Bucky had of sleeping and being awake and everything in between.

But Bucky hadn’t been awake, and anyhow, if he had been, he wouldn’t have cared, except maybe to find it funny in a dirty, scandalous sort of way. Bucky could get a date any time, lots of girls always willing to give him the time of day, and some of them, the time of night, too. Steve wasn’t bitter about it. The information Matty had unwittingly shared wouldn’t hold any interest for Bucky, because he didn’t want what Steve wanted - he didn’t have to covet what was behind the door because he could get it any time. He didn’t crave what Steve craved, and he never would.

But Steve? Well. Steve had floated through the next few days in a fugue, heat climbing up his neck for even thinking about it. It wasn’t so much the idea of a brothel that made him antsy as hell, there were brothels all over and you couldn’t be born and raised in Brooklyn and be oblivious to how people traded on everything they had to support their families. There were at least three brothels within a five-block radius, and they were just the ones Steve knew of. You could barely walk a few blocks without seeing a good-time girl or two, busy or looking to be, trying their luck on the street, rain, hail or shine. Oh no, it wasn’t that Matty was talking about a brothel. It was knowing that in this particular brothel—if drunk as a skunk Kowalski could be believed—you could buy time with men.

Steve’d thought about it before, of course he had—going with men. Bucky had unknowingly opened that door for him; Steve couldn’t have closed it and truth be told he didn’t want to. It was thrilling, even to think of it, like nothing had been before. But he’d never acted on it.

There was nothing about the way Bucky’s body was put together that hadn’t always fascinated Steve, and for a long time he’d put it down to wonder at how a healthy, strong body looked and functioned. Bucky had always been his uncomplicated muse; Steve had drawn parts of him for years, a hand here, the slant of neck curving up to his ear there. A corded thigh. His knees. His mouth. Those parts had always been fascinating.

The whole though, the whole of Bucky, the beauty of him, had crept up on Steve and quietly made its place inside him when he hadn’t been looking. He didn’t remember if there was a moment when he’d realized and understood what it made him, and it wasn’t like some big epiphany, it wasn’t a shock he’d had to weather, or get over or beat down. Just a discordant little piece finally slotting into place, making sense at last. A gentle awakening that had seemed to last for weeks, unwrapping itself little by little as all the odd thoughts and ideas he’d had his whole life made sense in a new context. It simmered away inside him, a little ember with no hope of stoking, but that was all right. His body had been wanting Bucky’s body for years, feverishly at first, and then as time went on, achingly, hopelessly. Steve was all right. He didn’t need to do anything about it. It had always been inside him and always would be.

So he supposed he could have skulked around back streets and shipyards until he found a tall, dark-haired guy to do him in some alley, but god, as much as he wanted to be touched, to be had, he didn’t want it like that. He’d only ever wanted one person, and it was the warmth of a bed he craved, the closeness of two bodies in winter, the comfort of being held, of being touched and wanted. God help him, he wanted Bucky, but an illusion would have to do, and he was a grown man, god _dammit_ , he could find what he needed if he put his mind to it; he could create his own illusion. Steve had been called a lot of things in his life but he’d never been called undetermined.

A brothel wasn’t some dirty alley for him to kneel in. There would be a bed. He would have _time_. He could take some time, he wouldn’t be rejected; they’d seen all kinds, maybe even odd, hopeless little embers like Steve. They’d know what to do with him.

Steve sighed, beads of sweat rolling down the groove of his spine and into the waistband of his trousers. Not today, though. Today, his feet hurt and his head was pounding and he smelled like rotting vegetables, which was one strike too many for being around any kind of people other than Bucky.

Steve changed his sweaty grip around the box and kept walking. He was lonely but he was self-aware enough to know that he was a stubborn bastard who couldn’t give into something without making it a fight first, even if that fight was with himself. He squinted into the afternoon glare and set his teeth and trudged past the door on Union with his damn box of vegetables held to his chest, and went west toward home with his eyes trained firmly on the pavement ahead.

~ ✪ ~

By the time he got in the door, he was in a foul mood. He toed his shoes off and tucked them in to sit right alongside Bucky's brogues. He followed the faint scent of cigarette smoke down the hallway and into the kitchen. Damn, that box had gotten heavy in the end. He set it down on the table and leaned on it, catching his breath a little until the wheeze went away.

Beyond the kitchen was their bedroom where he could see Bucky sitting outside with his back against the window - he’d climbed out onto the fire escape. He'd closed the window but the smoke always came in a little, and that was okay, even though Bucky always took care to keep it outside to spare Steve’s lungs; Steve liked it. It was Bucky. It was nice to come home and know without looking that Bucky was already there.

Bucky sat in shadow, the rungs of the ladder cutting stripes across his outstretched legs, the dregs of sunlight sliding off the landing near his bare toes. Smoke curled lazily up from his hand and into the still summer evening. Steve took a moment to lean his shoulder against the door jamb and just look for a while. Bucky’s shirt and tie had been hung over the back of the chair and he was out there in his undershirt, it had stuck to his back and there was a hole where a seam had come unstitched where the hem disappeared under Bucky’s arm. He’d slipped off his suspenders and they were hanging by the jut of his hip. His fingers were stained with something dark, maybe grease. Maybe he’d stopped by the Liebmanns’ to fix Joe’s bicycle again.

Steve pushed away from the door, turned his back on that view and filled a glass at the kitchen sink, then drank it all watching the dying sunlight flit across the roof across the street, the tiles as warm as Bucky’s sunkissed shoulders.

Behind him, the window sash hissed, Bucky’s feet heavy on the floor as he scooted down. 

“Say, Steve, did you hear about Bump Hadley?” Bucky said, clambering inside, the scent of the Lucky Strike he'd flicked the burning tip off to save for later wafting in with him. “Beaned Mickey Cochrane with a fastball. Nearly took his head clean off, he got so sore at him for making a solo homer in the third.”

“Christ, is Cochrane all right?” Steve said, pushing away from the sink to unpack the box of produce and see what they could have for dinner.

“Oh, he sat it out for a while and came right back in, only he didn’t amount to much. They said he was looking a bit shaky on his feet. Not surprised, after a smack like that.”

“I gotta say I’m impressed he got up again after taking one from Bump,” Steve muttered, picking over the carrots, “let alone trying to get back in the game.”

Bucky laughed and hip-checked him on the way to wash up. “Some fellas just don’t know when to stay down, I guess.”

~ ✪ ~

They ate, dust motes swirling lazily in the air, and when Steve finally dropped heavily on the couch, the sun had gone over. It hadn’t been gone long enough to cool the place down yet, and the stifling heat of the day remained trapped in the tiny apartment like a heavy blanket draped over the place. Steve hated summer.

He got sick in winter, but hell, he was quite capable of getting sick any old time. At least when you were cold, you could rug up, crawl into bed and warm up. You could put on heavy, thick clothes and drink hot tea with honey. Sometimes Bucky would crawl into bed with him and they’d leech body heat off each other without saying a word about it. Steve never asked and Bucky never offered, but it was wonderful like that, sometimes.

Steve pretended not to care and Bucky let him pretend, because he was a damn good friend to Steve, and Steve took great care that Bucky never saw the hot flush that bloomed up his neck when Bucky’s big body went heavy and lax with sleep so that Steve could burrow right into him. He never said a damn thing about waking up in the morning with Steve’s nose in his armpit or their legs tangled together, not even once. He could be an asshole about so many things, but somehow never that. So Steve didn’t mind the winter cold, but when you were hot, you were hot, and there was nothing to be done at all except stew wretchedly in your own juices and maybe sleep out in the park in the hope of catching a breeze. Steve hated goddamn summer.

"The wind will change and your face will set that way," Bucky said, walking past him to slump down in Steve's ma's old rocker. It creaked under his weight in a well-rehearsed protest.

"What wind," Steve groused, pushing sweaty bangs off his face.

"I hate it when you're right," Bucky said, fanning himself with the Times. On the front page, the Roosevelt Proposal shouted about the wage-hour law. In smaller script below, there was a passing mention about banning of child labor—Steve had skimmed Mr McCarthy's paper in his break earlier in the day. "You're more unbearable than usual when you're right."

"Save yourself time and just assume I'm always right," Steve said, feeling like every word was a boulder he had to push uphill. He had almost dozed off, belly pleasantly full, when Bucky roused next to him with a mighty yawn. Steve cracked an eye open to watch him scratch up his undershirt, thumbing at the neat line of hair down his stomach, legs spread wide in that easy way he had of owning a space. Owning himself.

"Damn this heat, I'm melting. C'mon, gimme a hand here," he muttered, and Steve peeled himself off the couch and went, and it wasn't long before they'd wrestled Bucky's mattress off the bed, sheets and all, and through the window, cursing like sailors until it was jammed in between the metal spokes of their rickety fire escape.

Steve left Bucky to fuss over making it flat enough for them to lie on. The first time they did this, they'd taken Steve's mattress, trying to make it comfortable for him, but it was a mistake they'd only make once. Steve had woken in the wee hours, chilled and aching, and Bucky had woken too, jostled as Steve tried crawling back in through the window, stooped over and creaking every damn where only to find his bed stripped down to the frame.

"Next time we'll use mine," Bucky had said, acting all put-upon even though he was the one fighting Steve off while trying to get the damn mattress back inside, back on Steve's bed and lumpy in just the right places so Steve could get some sleep, and even then it hadn't been right for days. Steve hadn't said a word about it but Bucky'd known anyhow. Bucky always knew when he was trying to hide being in pain and made noise out of it in another direction and away from Steve's Fragile Pride Street.

So they took Bucky’s mattress and once it was all jammed in, there was a pitcher of tea to fetch from the icebox; Steve had made it in the morning and he brought it out now, thinking of his mother, cutting a lemon to go with it just like she'd always done: honey in the cold and lemons in the heat. His heart was still raw for her, and it always would be, he thought. But it wasn't hard to keep faith with her memory when she was there at every step, some days. Bucky was trying to tune in to something or other on the wireless, cursing up a storm when the screech of the subway heralded the evening express that never failed to rattle the place, and when he was satisfied, he crawled back outside and circled the mattress like a cat settling down, flopping bonelessly on it with a rusty groan.

Steve clambered out after him and they settled together listening to the marvel of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge which was going to be opened in a couple of days after five years in the making, every part of him trying not to touch any part of anything else, but Bucky talked with his hands. Soon enough he was talking all over Steve: a hand loosely flapping against Steve's hip, _the strongest bridge in the world, Steve_ , knuckles rapping on Steve's chest, a point made with a finger pressed to Steve's arm, _I heard it’s orange! Why would you paint a bridge orange_! and the knob of Bucky's shoulder rubbing against Steve's as they talked well into the night.

Down below and all around the city sweltered on, and Steve couldn’t wait for the cooler weather to finally put an end to it, even if it meant putting an end to Bucky’s hands talking all over him.

~ ✪ ~

It didn't take long to regret the sentiment. Contrary to popular belief, Steve did not get sick at the drop of a hat, _thank you, Bucky_ , but there were times when he never seemed to get truly well, either, and colder weather brought out the worst of it. Sure, most times it was a pedestrian sort of sick where you coughed a bit and sneezed a bit on top of Steve's usual wheezing and pains all over, but the suffering passed at a predictable sort of pace, regardless of how much or how little time you spent in bed. But there were other times which could be much worse.

This, Steve realised with a sinking feeling, struggling to breathe through the vise tightening on his lungs, was one of those times.

He'd been nursing something for what felt like weeks, working at the grocer's every day he was wanted and going after all the signwriting and every art commission he could find. Their finances had improved a little because of it, and he could almost feel less guilty about the money he was still managing to put aside for a different purpose even if he was running himself into the ground to do it. He should have known it wouldn’t last, this riding along the edge of not quite sick enough not to work, and not quite well enough to do much else.

It was Friday night, and Steve took a moment to feel some shame about leaving Bucky to straighten the place up after their supper with the metallic tang of the workshop still clinging to his clothes when he’d normally be getting ready to go out, but it’d come over him so suddenly.

“I need to sit down a minute,” he said, and Bucky looked at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Don’t lie on the couch, you’ll just get a crick in the neck like last time,” he said, starting on the dishes, and Steve volleyed back a couple of half-hearted _yeah, yeah_ s but he went to bed all the same. He’d just close his eyes for a moment, that was all. He’d be up to help soon, he’d—

Steve fell asleep with the words still forming on the tip of his tongue.

When he woke up on Saturday morning, he could barely crack his eyes open. Everything hurt, from stiff, aching joints up to his head, stuffed with cotton wool. His chest was heavy and congested. Dread settled in his belly. This was sickness coming, and not the pedestrian kind.

Bucky had watched him over their breakfast but hadn't said much, except to point at Steve’s plate once it was clear he’d had enough, and ask, ”You gonna finish that?”

“Not hungry,” Steve muttered, pushing the plate over to him, but Bucky was still watching him even while he chewed.

"Something on my face?" Steve groused, feeling prickly and on edge. He had no business being tired after passing out the way he had, but God, he was exhausted down to his very bones.

"Low hanging fruit, Rogers," Bucky muttered, unimpressed, but didn’t say another word as he cleared Steve’s plate too, and Steve finally took himself right back to bed not long after, even though it was barely midday. God, he was so damn tired, he was a stone tied to an anchor tied to a sinking ship. His skin was tender and shivery and sore. He couldn't stop his teeth chattering.

By evening, the fever had well and truly set in. Bucky was there with him, talking, saying something, but Steve couldn't tell what, he couldn't focus, couldn't so much as turn his head, couldn't open his eyes, caught in the throes of absolute misery. He was freezing, no, he was boiling like on that day on the fire escape, they'd had iced tea and lemon and Bucky had had a bruise on his shin and freshly laundered sheets were gently swinging like white sails in the night between tenement windows and _geroff Bucky, 's too damn hot, 'm burning dontouch me_ , and then he was freezing again, teeth aching from clenching his jaw.

He might have lurched to his feet at some point, bile rising, and been bundled straight back into bed again, weak as a kitten, a bucket shoved under his face, a wet clothed passed over him after.

When he opened his eyes, lucid for the first time after what had felt like timeless delirium, dawn was rising, pinking the walls with its soft morning glow. Bucky was there in his own bed next to Steve’s, snoring softly, dark circles under his eyes. One of his knees poked out from under covers, still in his trousers. He hadn’t even undressed for bed. Steve closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly through the heaviness gathering over his chest.

The next time he woke felt like afternoon, and the heaviness had turned into a painful scrape, like a layer had been stripped from the inside of his chest. He coughed, and then couldn’t stop, his whole body convulsing and trying to dampen it so it wouldn’t hurt as much, but it was no use. A dish clanged in the kitchen and Bucky rushed in, lifting him under his arms so he could sit up a little until the coughing subsided. It left him dry-retching and panting, breathing like pebbles in a tin can, rattling. He put his hands over his face so Bucky wouldn’t see how close he was to tears.

“What day’s it?” Steve said once he had himself back under control. Bucky sat back and gave him a little space.

“It’s Monday afternoon,” Bucky said, and Steve really looked at him, then. “Don’t worry,” Bucky continued, ”I went to see Mr McCarthy this morning. He said you could take a couple of days to get better, he’ll be all right with his son helping out after school.”

Steve took a moment for his fuzzy brain to parse this out. “Sorry you missed work on my account, then.”

Bucky gave him a look that said, _shut your idiot mouth,_ and Steve clicked his teeth together, and kept clicking them together for another day while Bucky pretended not to hover and fuss over him, until he could get out of bed and drag his carcass off for a wash. His body ached all over and the cough wouldn’t quit. He had to sit down twice at the sink while trying to shave so he wouldn’t slit his own throat. He curled his body around the cough, trying not to cough up a lung. There was a small round mirror that Bucky had hung off a nail in the wall, and Steve’s own reflection stared back at him, sallow and dark-eyed, an unhealthy glow high on his cheeks.

Clarity came to him then, like blinking sleep from his eyes. He would die soon. Maybe not this time. Maybe not the next time, but it wouldn’t be long. His body hadn’t been made to endure. He would die soon - there would come a time when he was lying in his bed once again, sick again, just like this. He'd be hacking up his lungs and cursing his own foolishness because here he’d been lying in bed feeling sorry for himself but for all he knew, this was the best he’d ever feel. This, _right now_. He’d be sitting there, future Steve, dying, and think he'd known what sick was, but he hadn't.

In fact, he’d never be better or younger or stronger than he was right now.

It was all downhill from here until one day he wouldn't be able to get up anymore and he’d know he’d missed his chance to know what it was like when somebody loved you, even if it was just the skin to skin kind of love that other people took for granted.

Guilt gnawed at his insides over the money he'd kept secret from Bucky, but he'd have understood, Steve felt sure. He didn't need to know, and Steve didn't intend on telling him, but he'd have understood, and Steve was done waiting and hoping. He'd already stopped believing in Bucky's hopeful mantra that he _just hadn't met the right person yet_ , that things would turn around for him, that someone would see past his shortcomings.

Fact was, he'd known that someone most of his life but no amount of looking past shortcomings was gonna deliver that person into Steve's arms. He was who he was and who he'd always be, and the only happiness he'd ever get was what he could make for himself.

By the next day, his cough had gotten a little better, so he pushed down the guilt and made himself presentable, laced up his shoes and went to work like he always did, and by the end of the week he was feeling well enough to pocket his savings along with his trolley fare.

“Buck, did you hear me? I said, don’t wait up, I'll be working back tonight, helping set the cold room to rights,” Steve said. “Just go on out tonight if you want to.” His heart was thumping so loud, his whole body thrummed with it. Surely Bucky would hear it, Bucky wouldn’t know something was up—

“Yeah, yeah I got it,” Bucky mumbled under his breath, not even looking up.

Steve swallowed hard and turned away before Bucky could look up and read him like the newspaper spread open between his forked fingers.

~ ✪ ~

In the end, he didn’t even get a chance to knock. He’d marched right up to the door on Union with his heart in his throat and his fingers fussing with his hair, trying to straighten it out for God knew what reason. Nobody would notice or care. It always looked terrible, runaway colorless fluff, but he couldn’t keep his hands off of it, trying to smooth it back and tidy himself up while he lifted his hand to knock—

“Steve,” Bucky shouted from across the street, loping over in that confident stride of his. “Hey, Steve!”

Steve’s stomach sank. This couldn’t be happening.

“What are you doing here?” Steve bit out, gratified at Bucky’s usually sure steps faltering at the tone of his voice. “You following me?”

“What? What the hell, no, Steve, I’m not following you, just thought I’d stop by and see if you wanted to get some dinner with me since you said you’d be working late is all, and then here you are...” Bucky trailed off, looking up and around the street, then at Steve again as if finally realizing they were nowhere near the grocery and Steve hadn’t exactly been rushing home. Bucky stilled, sizing the place up. “Here you are,” he repeated, and his eyes narrowed, finally meeting Steve’s.

Steve rolled his hands into fists and tilted his face up, silent and still.

“What are you doing here, Steve?”

“None of your goddamn business,” Steve barked, and he never really knew where this sudden rage came from but God's truth, it was always there, simmering below the skin when he needed it. He could see the wheels turning as Bucky’s mouth pressed tightly in an unhappy line.

“All right, I’m sorry, don’t get sore about it, I was just trying to—” Behind Steve, a latch clunked heavily into place on the other side of the door and even Bucky shut up, then. Goddamnit. They were starting to draw attention, and Steve swallowed down his embarrassment and started to walk away; the last thing he wanted was to bring unwelcome attention to the place and to the people trying to make a living there.

“Steve, hey now, come on,” Bucky said to Steve’s retreating back, steps quickening to catch up.

“Leave me the hell alone, go and get your dinner if you’re so hungry,” Steve muttered into his collar and walked even faster, and damn it, his plan was ruined and Bucky had seen and Bucky would _know_ and all the dominos would fall one after the other until the last of Steve’s dirty secrets had toppled and spilled their guts, because Steve? Steve couldn’t lie for shit, not to anyone, and especially not to Bucky.

“Don’t you want to come?”

“I’ve lost my appetite,” Steve said, and wasn’t that the honest truth.

“Jesus H Christ, Rogers, where’s the fire,” Bucky said darkly but he matched him easily step for step until, naturally, Steve was out of breath and cursing his body for betraying him once again. He was starting to wheeze by the time they rounded the corner past Our Lady of Perpetual Help but Bucky stayed silent at his side even when it began to rain, fat droplets splattering all over their faces and shoulders all the way home. Thunder rolled in the distance.

Steve put his shoulder to the door when it stuck despite jiggling it every which way, and still Bucky said nothing, just watched him make an ass of himself in silence as Steve fairly threw himself inside, regretting coming home already. It felt like he was walking into a cage instead of walking away from the situation. He should have gone somewhere he could get out of his own head for a while instead of to the one place where he couldn’t avoid Bucky any more than he could avoid himself.

He heard the door creak shut as Bucky came inside and closed it behind him.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” Bucky asked, kicking his shoes off, and Steve huffed and turned away, yanking at his tie, wet and sticking.

“Hell no, we’re not gonna talk about it,” he muttered darkly and nearly choked himself trying to get that damn tie off. Rainwater dripped steadily down his face, down his neck. God, why was it so hot. Steve couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, and still Bucky wouldn’t let up.

“Steve, come on.”

“Nope,” he said, finally loosening the thing and jerkily removing his coat and his shoes, leaving them right there under the kitchen table, the coat slapped down wet over the back of the chair. It’d annoy the hell out of Bucky and he’d put them away, no doubt, and Steve would enjoy every tense, put-upon moment of it.

“You know what that place is, huh?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Steve shot back, ears burning hot because of course Bucky knew, whether he’d heard the Kowalskis talking about it or not, Bucky had already known.

“Steve,” Bucky said, voice gone soft, barely heard over the pounding rain, and Steve wouldn’t have it, _couldn’t_ have it, couldn’t have Bucky being _kind_ to him now, of all things. He felt so small and naive and _foolish._

“Don’t even bother, all right? People do this all the time, I’m no different to twenty other fellas on any given night, don’t bother telling me, Buck.” Rage was rising inside him like bile, and Steve could feel it coming, wished he could stop it, but his temper seemed to hurtle on without his input. He could see it in Bucky’s face that he was already doubling down on the same old rancid bone he’d been chewing on for years. It was getting more hateful as time went on.

“All right, but listen, I understand, all right? I know your luck’s been rotten but I’ll find us both a date like I always do and if you just remember to shut your trap from time to time, it’s gonna be different, you gotta trust me—”

“NO.” His shout rattled the window.

Bucky’s mouth dropped open in surprise, but he’d still not had enough of pushing, goddamn it, he was always fucking _pushing_. "Steve, it's all right, it's not a big deal, I don't care if you want to pay a girl to do for you once in a while you don't have to skulk around—"

"I don't want a girl to do for me—"

"—I'm just a little surprised is all, I thought you wanted to meet a nice girl to—"

"Goddamnit, Bucky, I don't want a girl at all!"

He'd whisper-shouted, he wasn’t crazy and the walls had ears, but still, there was a silence like in the wake of a thunderclap. Steve's chest was heaving. His hands were shaking as he looked up into Bucky's shocked face. He couldn’t take it back now. The only way out was through.

"I don't want any _girl_. Now do you get it? _Now_ will you leave me the hell alone?"

Bucky's throat clicked. He straightened and set his mouth in a tight line and Steve could see it all slotting into place in his head: all their failed double dates, Steve's lack of investment in any of the girls Bucky had tried so hard to talk him up to, all the other little ways that Steve was different; all the little ways that Steve was queer. Bucky looked at him so long, Steve didn't know what to do with himself, except that he couldn't look away, couldn't cower from this, not now that it was out in the open between them like a living thing.

Bucky rubbed his hand over his mouth. "Okay. All right,” he said, getting it straight in his head. “So you've. You've done that before?"

All the fight left Steve in a sickly rush. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed moments later by the rumble of thunder, and the rain seemed like it would fall for days, steady sheets of it pelting against the windows, reminding him that he was soaked through. He'd probably be sick again tomorrow because he'd been too close to getting a goddamn break. Steve huffed and shook his head, wiping rain off his face. Seemed like they were gonna talk about it after all, when all he really wanted was to stow the humiliation away in a case, shove it under his bed, and never think about it again.

"It was gonna be my first time," he admitted tiredly.

Bucky nodded, eyes trained on Steve, really seeing him. Seeing inside of him. "First time with a fella?"

"With anybody." In for a penny, in for a pound. Steve waited for Bucky's judgment, imagining what a literal interpretation of the earth swallowing someone up would look like. Would it rise up and gulp him down whole? Would it part beneath him like a jagged fissure? Maybe the rain would wash him away, douse the ember and turn it to ash.

Bucky took a step towards him, shoes scuffing on the wooden floor. “Steve,” he said, and Steve looked up and dropped his shoulders, calculating in the back of his mind how long it would take him to pack everything he owned and whether Bucky would hang onto it until he found a new place to live.

And then, Bucky leaned in close and kissed him right on the mouth.

A long, frozen moment passed before Steve's brain caught up with what was happening. His hands came up and he wasn't even sure what he was going to do with them before it was done and he'd pushed Bucky away hard enough that he stumbled back a step, eyes wide.

Steve touched his own mouth with a shaking hand. “What _the hell_ was that,” he choked out, but his mouth was still tingling, the inside smarting where it had rubbed against his teeth, which should at least be proof enough that it had actually happened. Bucky had kissed him. Bucky had _kissed him_.

Bucky tried for a small smile, but whatever he saw in Steve's face made it slowly slide off his face. His throat dipped in a dry swallow.

"You don't have to pay for it. If that's. If that's what you want. You can have it."

Steve came over stone cold, freezing all the way down to his bones. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. "What."

"You heard me," Bucky said gently, but he was standing straighter, maybe from seeing the fight in Steve's shoulders already. “You can have it, Steve.”

When he leaned down as if to kiss Steve again, Steve nearly flew out of his own skin to get away until he’d hit the wall behind his back. He pushed up against it, whole body shivering.

"You know Bucky, you can be an asshole sometimes, a regular nag, a slippery bastard and a damn card cheat but I never took you for cruel," Steve said, hating the quiver in his own voice, hating that he was shaking, that his whole body had gone hot and cold at once for the way Bucky was playing with him and how much it hurt.

"Steve, no," Bucky said quietly, exasperated, stepping a little closer.

Steve stood his ground, he had to, there was nowhere to go. Bucky had literally backed him into the wall. The words tumbled out of him, disbelieving, shocked. "You don't play with people, Bucky. It’s not right. You don't play with people, no matter what's wrong with them, I never thought you could do that, I don’t—"

"Steve, goddamnit, stop! Just wait a damn second," Bucky shouted over the top of him and came in close again until he was gripping Steve's shoulders, gripping him so tight that Steve felt grounded long enough for the panic to pass. "Jesus Christ, Steve, you get so wound up, just stop and listen, okay, pal?"

Steve nodded mutely, because what else could he do? His eyes were glued to Bucky's face, waiting for the ax to fall.

"Jesus. I'm not— I wouldn't do that, Steve. I wouldn't. Not to you, not to anybody, and you oughta know that."

Steve’s shock had faded down to numbness. Didn’t matter what he said anymore. He was tired and confused and everything was going to hell, and all he wanted was to go to bed and sleep for days, but Bucky’s hands were curled around his shoulders and he was standing so close, his hair dripping, smelling of rain, glistening drops collected in the dip between his clavicles, and Steve was only human.

"Okay, Buck. But you oughta know something too. If this is funny to you, if it’s some kinda joke to you and you’re thinking we’re gonna laugh about it later, we won’t. I won't— I can’t.” Steve looked up into Bucky’s face. “Do you understand, Buck? I won’t get up from that.”

“You always get up, that’s part of your problem,” Bucky said, crooking a smile at him. His hands rubbed down over Steve’s shoulders, and his eyes darted between Steve’s. He came closer still, until Steve could only see parts of him: stubble darkening on his chin, the curl of dark, damp hair hanging over his eye, could only feel the heat gathering between their bodies.

“I’m not playing,” Bucky whispered next to his ear. “You can have it any time you want.”

Steve shuddered, closing his eyes as Bucky’s breath ghosted over his neck. A switch had been flipped inside him, sending electricity zinging up his spine, pulling the bottom out of his belly. His hands found Bucky’s hips and he dug his fingers in, breath coming fast when Bucky nuzzled at him, mouthed at his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and found Steve’s waiting lips again. Then they were kissing, breathing and huffing and kissing each other, Bucky’s tongue gentling into his mouth the way Steve had imagined so many times as he’d watched Bucky’s tongue dart out to moisten his lips or drag his bottom lip in when he was pondering on something. Steve had been watching that mouth for years and now he could taste it, drag that lip between his own teeth, clumsy, messy and inexperienced as he was.

Bucky took his chin and tilted his face and it was even better like that, the slickness, the give and take, the way their mouths fit together, the softness of Bucky’s lips with the hardness of his teeth behind them. Steve groaned, a wounded, desperate sound he didn’t recognize, his whole body thrumming when Bucky’s hands went around him, pulling him in close. Bucky smeared his mouth across Steve’s, licked and nibbled at his lips, his jaw, his neck, buckling Steve’s knees out from under him. When they parted, Steve was panting like a racehorse and Bucky’s storm grey eyes were nearly black.

Steve swallowed hard and put his head to Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky kissed his neck, his ear, pushing his fingers into Steve’s hair, and Steve had known him so long but he’d never once had him this close, standing so big over Steve, looming over him with that big body. It _did_ things to Steve, made his blood hot, made him wild. Steve mashed his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck. God, the scent of him, the strong beat of the vein in his neck, _Christ_.

“If you let me have this I won’t give it back,” he ground out meanly, grazing his teeth over Bucky’s neck, biting, scratching his fingers down Bucky’s broad back. “I won’t.”

Bucky’s arms tightened around him. “If you let me give it, I won’t let you,” and it was like a livewire had touched Steve inside, lighting him up from deep in his guts to the tips of his fingers and toes. Blood hammered in his ears. He wanted to rub his face all over Bucky’s body. He wanted to bite and cling and crawl inside him, heady with the permission to desire him, to touch him.

Bucky’s hands felt huge on his shoulders and his thumbs rubbed deep circles over Steve’s neck, his throat, and his voice had dropped low, low as the distant thunder. “Steve,” he said. “Steve, please—”

He drove Bucky back across the room and pushed him into the bedroom, then onto his bed. Bucky went heavily, falling back with a grunt, bouncing and nearly smashing his head on the wall. Steve paused for a moment to make sure he hadn’t actually brained him and that’s all it took for the absurdity, the sheer unreality of the situation to catch up with him. Laughter bubbled out of Steve so suddenly he doubled over with it, fell about helplessly weak with it, hiccuping into Bucky's chest.

Bucky looked at him for a moment, blinking, and then he was laughing too, rubbing his hands over his face, over his mouth, pushing his fingers through his sleek, wet hair.

“God, do you have to be so dramatic,” he said, and scooted up until he was half-sitting against the wall with Steve’s pillow behind him. “C’mere,” he huffed, and pulled Steve on top of him to straddle his lap, and then they were kissing again, gentler, slower, teasing and being teased until Steve was half out of his mind with wanting him. His hands found Bucky’s shirt buttons and opened them one by one until he could slide the shirt from Bucky’s browned shoulders, taking the hem of his undershirt to pull it up over Bucky’s head and toss it aside.

He’d seen Bucky like this a hundred times, but he was seeing him for the first time, too. Steve touched his throat, his collarbones, the smattering of dark hair on his tan chest, and Bucky sat back and let him, even when Steve’s hand drifted lower, just shy of the bulge in his pants. He was breathing fast and his nipples had hardened; Steve rubbed his thumbs over them, watching Bucky’s eyes drift closed and his mouth fall open. Inspired, he brought a hand up to his mouth and licked his thumb, then wet Bucky’s nipple with it, rubbing in circles, and was rewarded with a broken gasp that just about made Steve’s heart flip. Bucky surged up and kissed him, fingers at Steve’s collar, unbuttoning, pulling apart, yanking at his clothes until they’d gotten Steve shirtless too, and Bucky pulled him close so they were chest to chest, arms around each other, Steve’s hands in Bucky’s hair. God, he was so _warm_. Steve pressed closer still, rubbing the tent in his pants against Bucky’s hard belly.

Bucky looked up at him then, and Steve shivered from his shoulders all the way down. “I’m gonna show you I’m not playing,” he said, his voice rough, and slid his hands under Steve’s ass to make him rise up on his knees.

“Brace your hands,” he rumbled. Steve spread his hands on the wall above Bucky’s head and nearly died right there when Bucky looked up at him with his dark, hooded eyes, rubbed his face over the bulge in Steve’s pants, then peeled his flies apart, reaching in to pull his cock out. He pulled Steve closer with a firm grip on his ass and slipped Steve’s cock into his hot, wet mouth.

“Oh God,” Steve said thickly, “oh, _Bucky_ ,” and he couldn’t do a thing about how fast it was upon him, Bucky's dark head moving over him, sucking him down, turning him inside out. Both of Bucky’s hands were on his ass, driving him on, pulling him in. Steve’s strangled moans only seemed to make Bucky hotter for it, groaning around Steve’s cock, and it was funny how he was in a bed all right, but if he’d thought he’d get to take his time, well, no plan survived first contact with the enemy and his body was galloping on ahead to the finish line, plans be damned. It was all Steve could do to hang on.

He slipped a hand into Bucky’s hair to better feel the rhythm of it, and Bucky looked up at him and sucked him so good, and that was all, that was everything—Bucky looking up at him with _those eyes_ , with his mouth full of Steve’s cock—and then Steve's insides were melting and he was nearly sobbing, spilling into Bucky’s mouth, doubled over him and clutching at his hair, pulsing and weak and tingling and _awake_.

Bucky held him loosely in his mouth for a long moment, letting him come back to himself, just holding him in the cradle of his tongue, warm and snug, kneading his ass a little, supporting his weight with both hands. When he let Steve slip free, he buried his nose in the thatch of curls at the root of him, kissing him there, pulling in a deep breath, scenting him, nosing at him, making a different kind of heat rise up Steve’s neck. It was so intimate. Somehow he'd never imagined it to be so _intimate_. His hand was still in Bucky’s hair, and he pushed his fingers through it, brushing it back from Bucky’s temples, and then Bucky was unzipping his own pants and Steve hurried to help him push them down enough so he could pull himself out, watching hungrily as the fat, blood-hot head of Bucky’s cock slipped through his fist.

“Gonna help me here, pal?” Bucky asked, voice ruined, destroyed, and Steve licked his own palm and wrapped it around the head while Bucky worked the thick shaft, tipping his head back and groaning, sex-hurt and electrifying like nothing Steve had ever heard before, and then he was coming, shooting between Steve’s fingers, spilling thickly on their bellies.

“I’m not giving it back,” Steve whispered, and held onto Bucky’s twitching body, wriggling down until he could push his nose into Bucky’s sweaty neck. “You hear me, Buck? I’m not giving it back.”

But Bucky laughed, a soft, wet laugh like crying, and only held him tighter, and stroked him from the nape of his neck all the way down to the small of his back until Steve was taffy in his arms.

They finally got themselves naked and wiped off a little, and got under the covers, and Steve went to turn on his side—hardwired, the way he always did when they bunked together—but Bucky wrapped his hand around his bicep.

"You always wait for me to fall asleep."

Steve looked at him over his shoulder. "What?"

"You never let me hold you until you think I'm asleep," Bucky said, and Steve had no idea what his face was doing, radiating shock, maybe, but Bucky's eyes were fond, and a little sad. "Don't you know, Steve? Don't you know what you are to me?"

"Bucky," Steve said, voice unsteady, the hot rock of his beating heart lodged in his throat, and he didn't even know what he was going to say next, but Bucky kept talking over him anyhow.

"You're a big picture guy, I get that. But can't you see it, Steve? I can't draw it like you can, but can't you see the little picture too, right here in this matchbox?"

They were in bed together, in Steve's narrow bed. Bucky knew how Steve had his coffee in the morning. Hell, he knew how Steve had his everything. He knew where Steve's medications were and what they were for. The image of Bucky, falling asleep in his clothes when Steve’d been sick would be etched in his mind forever, though he didn’t really know why, it just was and that’s where he liked it. Steve had darned three pairs of socks last week, and he didn't even know which ones were his or Bucky's anymore. On the table near the couch, Bucky’s serials would grow in a little pile around a book Steve tended to put down for weeks at a time, like mushrooms around a tree.

He’d only ever wanted one person, and here they were, in the warmth of a bed, the closeness of two bodies though it wasn't even winter yet, in the comfort of being held, of being touched and wanted.

They were in bed together, and Bucky was holding his hand.

Steve looked up, and Bucky was steadily looking right back at him, waiting for the well-loved, perfectly worn-in shoe to drop.

Prickly heat gathered behind his eyes.

"C'mere," Bucky said, and pulled him in close and held him tight to his chest. Steve burrowed into him, and they settled together while the rain fell and fell, dripping off the windowsill.

~ ✪ ~

Steve woke up with his nose in Bucky's armpit and their legs tangled together.

He stilled for a moment while his brain shook itself awake and worked out where all his extremities were, when Bucky rumbled, "Mornin' sunshine," and it all came flooding back in a gasp of white heat and goosebumps.

Bucky's arm was around him, his hand in Steve's hair, and Steve nuzzled right into his warm sleep-scented body with a shiver. It seemed he didn't have to move away before Bucky woke up. Not anymore. _I'm not giving it back_ , Steve had said, but away from the heat of the moment, it didn't have the same conviction. Over the steady rise and fall of Bucky's chest, he could look out the window, fat raindrops hanging on to the underside of the sash window. It was still drizzling outside, rainwater plinking away.

Bucky lifted his hand and above Steve's head, there was a rustle: pages turning. Bucky's hand returned to Steve's hair, idly stroking.

In the harsh light of day, they were two men breaking the law. Nobody except Bucky would care if Steve got made, but Bucky, well. Bucky had a real future, and Steve loved him so much that he wanted him to have it, even if it meant he had to stay behind.

"Stop thinking so hard, you're gonna hurt yourself," Bucky murmured. Overhead, another page was turned.

"Someone's gotta do the thinking in this outfit. Sure as hell can't be you, all that hair weighing down your brainpan. It's a wonder you can stand up straight and don't drag your knuckles around."

Bucky huffed a laugh, dragging his knuckles upside Steve's head. "Say what you like, Rogers, I know you love my hair."

"Well sure, bird's nest like that, makes it easy to pick you out of a crowd. Can't miss it."

"No, I mean you really love my hair," Bucky said wonderingly, and a tiny prickle of alarm wound up the back of Steve's neck.

"Says so right in this book," Bucky continued, another page turning, and Steve got an elbow under him so he could see.

"Where'd you get that," Steve said, lunging for his notebook, but Bucky was quicker, lifting it up out of his reach at the same time as transforming the arm he'd had loosely looped around Steve's shoulders into a headlock. Steve twisted and got his knees under him and his fingers on Bucky’s ribs and then it was on, both of them squirming and giggling until Steve could barely breathe, but it was Bucky who called it, same as he always did, powerless in the end against Steve’s big handspan and determination.

“Uncle! Oh my fucking— _UNCLE_ , I said!” He was convulsing with it, nearly sobbing.

The bed was in a shambles, both of them panting and laugh-sore and sweaty. They’d fogged up the window, turning the room into a cozy cocoon.

Steve picked up his notebook, which had fallen in between the bed and the wall, and they settled again together, their shoulders jammed against each other in Steve’s bed. He opened the notebook and started flicking through it; for all the noise he’d made, it wasn’t much of a secret when it came down to it.

“Don’t see anything in here that says I love your hair,” he muttered, but he did. It was plain as day if you had eyes; in between studies of subway scaffolding and random sketches of everyday people: Bucky leaning on his elbow, fist under his chin, hair flopping down over his brow, carefully rendered. Bucky in profile, a jet black lick of ink to suggest the upsweep of his bangs, the way he did it up with Brylcreem. Bucky sleeping, Bucky’s forearms with the shirtsleeves rolled up, Bucky all over the notebook which Steve took everywhere with him, small enough to slip into the inside pocket of his coat for times when he couldn’t take his sketchbook.

Bucky held out his hand and Steve put the notebook in it. He had nothing left to hide.

 

 

"So what now," Steve said and wished he hadn't opened his goddamned mouth. He was doomed to forever hasten his own unhappiness by not leaving well enough alone. He turned his face into Bucky's body and breathed him in.

“Now we make breakfast, I’m hungry,” Bucky said, yawning, as though it was just another Saturday morning. He was still leafing through Steve’s notebook, and Steve wondered what he thought of it all, seeing the sketches, the studies, for the love letters he now knew them to be. Steve pressed his ear to Bucky’s chest, feeling the steady thumping of his heart, and imagined the warm, fogged-up bubble around them bursting if they got out of this bed. Somehow he’d managed to tether Bucky down for these precious hours and he wasn’t ready to give him up when Bucky came to his senses. He realized then that he was hungry, too, starving, _ravenous_ , more than ever in his whole life.

He wriggled out from under Bucky’s arm and draped himself across his body, curling around him.

“You wanna know why I went there last night?” Steve gently rolled the covers down, exposing Bucky’s belly, his hips. Behind him, Bucky had stopped turning pages. Steve touched the trail of hair that began under Bucky’s stomach, and followed it down with gentle sweeps of his fingers.

“I don’t know, Steve, do I?”

“Because I wanted to take my time,” Steve said, pitching his voice low. “I wanted to close my eyes and imagine.”

Bucky was pink and soft against the crease of his thigh but he started to thicken, almost like he could feel Steve’s eyes touching him. Steve pressed his cheek to Bucky’s belly, watching him stir, and stroked his thighs, down to the edge of the bunched-up blankets and back again.

He kept his eyes open when he slipped Bucky’s cock, still soft and fat and pliant, into his mouth.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Bucky gasped and curled a hand over Steve’s shoulder, fingers trembling. Steve was shivery with joy. He kept Bucky in his mouth, tucked him into his cheek, just for the taste, the sensation of loving him, caring for him. He cradled Bucky’s balls in his hand and held them, petting, weighing them. It was crazy, how much he craved these simple things, he was _stupid_ with it, burning for it, couldn’t get enough of Bucky’s body and not just for sex; Bucky’s knees - he had shapely knees. Muscled calves. Steve sucked him and looked at him, hands rubbing and caressing and grabbing everywhere, and he couldn’t get _enough_.

Bucky’s hair was coarser than Steve’s and denser on his thighs, thicker. Steve petted that too, and everywhere he could reach, testing all the textures of Bucky’s body while Bucky hardened in his mouth and made startled, gasping sounds behind him. He didn’t know what would happen once they got out of this bed but until then, Bucky was his. He’d convince him. He’d show Bucky how good and sweet he could be to him. He was determined, and a hard worker, and this was worth working and fighting for. This was everything. Steve groaned, pushing into Bucky’s groin, stuffing his mouth full of cock.

When Bucky grew too big, too rigid to hold in his mouth, Steve eased off and began to suck him, just a little, just the head, licking and kissing him and letting him slide between his lips like candy, painting his mouth with Bucky’s glistening cock. Bucky bit off a moan, and when Steve looked over his shoulder, Bucky’s arm was over his face, and he was looking down at Steve with hooded eyes that were nearly all black.

Steve turned, rearranging himself to face him, so he could hold Bucky’s eyes when he slowly sucked Bucky’s cock back into his mouth.

“Yeah, oh fuck, yes,” Bucky whispered, trembling, body all tight and flushed, his eyes rolling back in his head when Steve pulled away and rubbed his face on him, swirled his tongue around him.

Steve got lost in it for a while, his own body didn’t matter, nothing mattered except the whole life he was living between Bucky’s thighs. He could have stayed there forever; the scent of Bucky’s warm skin, the increasingly desperate sounds he was making just added to the incredible rightness and satisfaction of what he was doing. Even once he’d made his decision to go to Union street, he hadn’t known, not really. But now he knew. He’d never want anything else after this. He felt like he was wearing his own skin for the first time.

Bucky looked wrecked, clawing at his own hair, panting. When Steve moved his hand in tandem with his sucking mouth, Bucky choked off a broken moan, so Steve slowed it down and repeated it, watching carefully, skin tingling all over from seeing Bucky so affected. In trying to get a better grip he twisted his fist and Bucky arched, groaning, hips stuttering, so Steve did that again too, twisting his grip and keeping it slippery, licking wetly over the darkened head of Bucky’s cock.

“Holy—Steve, oh my _God_ ,” Bucky moaned, and Steve resisted the urge to go faster. Bucky’s hands were in his own hair and Steve tried to remember the network of veins in his arms, the morning light softly framing his stubbled jaw, the way his eyes drifted closed, pained with pleasure.

He coaxed Bucky on with long, unhurried strokes and laved the tip of his cock with open-mouth kisses until Bucky was a mess of curses and hoarse moans that had Steve harder than he’d ever been in his life, though it was a far away sort of ache, and unimportant. Bucky’s sac had begun to tighten in his hand, but Steve wasn’t ready to be done yet, so he eased Bucky’s cockhead out of his mouth and bent his head to kiss and suck his balls.

“God _damnit_ ,” Bucky said brokenly, covered his face with his hands and spread his legs wider.

Steve sat back a little and just looked at him, taking in the sweaty shine of Bucky’s body, all of him wound up and restless and poised on the edge, all of the secret skin between his spread thighs he was letting Steve touch. He held Bucky’s eyes as he lowered his head and started to suck him and twist his hand over the shaft, slippery and lewd, just like Bucky seemed to like with how it made his eyes roll back, until finally Bucky shuddered all over and went hot and rigid in Steve’s hand.

“Oh _fuck_ , oh my God, _Steve_ ,” he panted, hands clawing at the blankets and chest heaving for breath, and then he was coming, nearly doubling over with it, and fuck, that was Bucky’s heartbeat pounding away; Steve felt it beating against his tongue and a moment later tasted it as Bucky started to fill his mouth, but he wanted to see it too, the evidence of what he'd done, and he pulled back and watched Bucky shoot up his own chest, finally pulsing out over his trembling belly.

Steve was mesmerized, the hunger inside him baying with satisfaction. Waves of pleasure washed over Bucky’s face and Steve reached down to stroke himself off with his eyes on Bucky’s slack mouth, his pale throat, the dark hair on his chest glistening with sweat. Steve went fast and slick and dirty, none of that careful deliberation left over for himself. He buried his face between Bucky’s thighs, breathed him in hard and came, spilling all over his hand and the bed and himself, curling in between Bucky’s legs, nearly sobbing with the rightness of it all.

~ ✪ ~

"So, first time," Bucky panted conversationally, wiping come off his chin and _glowing_.

"That bad, huh?" Steve muttered, grinning, still catching his breath. Bucky’s cock was still twitching and Steve thought about sucking it right back into his mouth again, but Bucky pulled him up and tucked him back under his arm. Steve sighed, curling his hand over Bucky’s chest. The bubble was still intact around them, the steady drizzle of rain drowning out the sounds of the world. There _was_ no world except for the heat of Bucky’s skin and the smell of the two of them together, lying in Steve’s messy bed.

“Terrible,” Bucky said, fingers brushing against Steve’s arm, sinking into his hair, talking all over Steve with his hands again. “Look at this mess.”

“I think it was a joint effort,” Steve said, rising up on his elbow and making like he was looking around at the wreck of his bed, just to feel Bucky’s hands skittering over his skin. His chest tightened at Bucky’s wrecked hair, at the hot flush still blooming on his handsome, beloved face.

“Might need to work on improving your technique,” Bucky said absently, like his mouth was running just for the hell of it while his mind was busy elsewhere. His eyes were soft, but they bored into Steve, seeing inside him. “You’re letting your brain do the heavy lifting again, pal, I can hear the wheels creaking.”

Steve huffed a laugh, but he couldn’t keep a smile up. There went his big mouth again. “I don’t want you to think you have to do this out of pity, or some kinda misguided—“

Bucky groaned and fell back on Steve’s pillow. “Pity? Jesus Christ, Rogers. I thought we settled this. No amount of pity would be enough to make me put up with your happy horseshit day in day out, let me fucking tell you.”

Steve’s rage simmered just within reach. It would be easy to get his back up and pull a thunderstorm out of thin air. “Why bother, then?” He wished it hadn’t come out so plaintive. He choked back all the other stuff that was crowding into his mouth.

“Hell, I don’t know, Steve, maybe because I fucking want to, huh? You ever thought of that?” And then he pulled Steve in and kissed him, and held down his indignant flailing with the weight of his warm body until Steve let the rage go and kissed him back, and god it was good, it was so damn good. When they came apart, they were both a little glazed.

“'Cause I fucking want to, you got that?" And when Steve nodded dumbly, speechless for once, Bucky smiled. "Anyway, like I said, you need the practice,” he muttered, kissing Steve’s jaw, his neck.

“Can't exactly practice on myself,” Steve agreed, and Bucky lifted his head and opened his eyes wide, goggling at him.

"Now that's a picture.”

“Not one _I’m_ drawing,” Steve cackled, then waited until Bucky was looking right at him to catch his lip between his teeth, letting it drag out slow. “You gonna let me practice on you?”

Bucky swallowed dryly, blinking. "Damn right. Finally worked out a way to shut you up, you think I’m gonna give that up?” He smirked out the side of his mouth and quirked an eyebrow, and yelped when Steve beaned him in the face with a pillow.

_~ fin ~_

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from [I'll Be Seeing You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDlKb2cBAqU) which postdates the events in the story, but just fits so well.
> 
> Steve works at a Grocery store because of [this post by asocialconstruct](http://a-social-construct.tumblr.com/post/139578571661/how-expensive-was-that). I also referred to [Hansbekhart's How To Brooklyn](http://hansbekhart.tumblr.com/tagged/how+to+brooklyn/page/2) bible.
> 
> Mickey Cochrane [really did get beaned by a fastball on May 25th, 1937](https://www.fangraphs.com/tht/tht-live/75th-anniversary-mickey-cochrane-gets-beaned/), the New York Times really did report about [child labour being banned on that day](https://static01.nyt.com/images/1937/05/25/nytfrontpage/scan.jpg), and the [Golden Gate Bridge would be opened in just a few days time](https://edition.cnn.com/travel/gallery/tbt-golden-gate-bridge-opens/index.html).
> 
> If you enjoyed and would like to reblog, [our masterpost is here](http://albymangroves.tumblr.com/post/175190579068/ill-be-looking-at-the-moon-but-ill-be-seeing).
> 
> Thank you for reading ♥


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